


Mycroft's Law

by FrancescaMonterone



Series: Mycroft's Law [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Backstory, Brotherly Angst, Brotherly Love, Childhood, Family, Holmes Brothers, Holmes Brothers' Childhood, Minor Character Death, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, POV Mycroft Holmes, Pre-Series, Protective Mycroft, Slight Canon Divergence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-26
Updated: 2017-03-26
Packaged: 2018-10-11 01:51:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,258
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10452297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FrancescaMonterone/pseuds/FrancescaMonterone
Summary: Mycroft worries. Constantly.There's a good reason for that.________________________________________________________That night, Mycroft formulated his first - no, strike that, his one and only law. It was a rather lengthy discourse, twisting and looping and branching off, but in the end, it all came down to one very simple truth: Sherlock must be kept safe. As laws went, it was a rather tricky one. It looked unassumingly straightforward at first glance, but in fact, it was extremely difficult to uphold.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This story isn't entirely canon compliant. Most importantly, there is no third Holmes sibling. I never particularly liked Eurus Holmes as a character, she seems so exaggerated and unreal to me. Besides, she messes up the dynamics between Mycroft and Sherlock. Can't have that, because it's the main motive in this story, and the ones to follow.  
> I've also killed their father (yes, I'm a bad person, but hey, at least I gave him an interesting backstory) and Sherlock, not Victor Trevor, is the one to fall into the well. Other than that, things are pretty much in line with canon.

 

Most people need a considerable amount of time and experience to figure out what the most important thing in their lives is, that one goal they must reach at all costs, the one purpose that drives them, the one person they cannot be without. For most, the road to this realization is a long and winding one, and many never find it. They stumble about their lives, knowing that they are searching for something, but not knowing quite what it is.

Mycroft Holmes was eleven years old when he learnt what _his_ most important motivation was. And he might have seen the signs far earlier, had he been but a little more versed in the ways of the world and a little less preoccupied with other matters such as growing up, quietly outsmarting a string of private tutors, and practicing the art of letting people have his way.

When Mycroft was eleven years old, his baby brother - though hardly a baby any more at four years of age - fell into a well, and Mycroft jumped in after him without thinking twice. It was a deep well. It was also narrow enough for him to scrape himself bloody on his way down, and to break his left wrist in the process. Finally, the water at the bottom was icy cold and very, very dark. Mycroft had known all this before he jumped, and it had done nothing to deter him.

Sherlock himself seemed rather surprised by this development. He had - miraculously, and maybe due to his smaller stature - survived the fall without injury, and was currently attempting not to drown when Mycroft arrived. Mycroft very nearly ruined his valiant efforts, inadvertently pushing him under water until he caught his bearings, grabbed a fistful of Sherlock's soaked jumper, and pulled his little brother up.

"What are you doing?!" Sherlock spluttered.

"Saving you," Mycroft replied, panting. "Get onto my back. Hold onto my shoulders. _Don't let go_."

It was his _don't argue or else..._ voice, and Sherlock, as he would do so many times in the future, didn't argue. He climbed onto Mycroft's back and wrapped his arms around his neck. Mycroft coughed and paddled around somewhat aimlessly, trying to adjust to the added weight. For a little while, they were quiet.

"That was stupid," Sherlock finally said. "Now we'll both die."

"No we won't," Mycroft replied resolutely. "They will find us."

In his mind, he calculated the chances for a speedy rescue... or any rescue at all. They were slim at best. Mother was overseas and would not be back until Sunday, and after lunch he had seen Father head to his laboratory in the converted shed behind the orchard. His tutor would not arrive until two o'clock, and Sherlock's music lesson was scheduled for four o'clock. Which left the gardener and his apprentice, working on the front lawn on the other side of the house, out of sight and hearing range and the housekeeper, who was probably working in the kitchen. Sherlock's nanny was off for the day, visiting her mother.

Sherlock, it appeared, had made similar calculations. "Who?" he asked.

"I don't know," Mycroft said. "I can't predict the future. But we will _not_ die. Father would be very upset if we died. And Mummy, too."

Sherlock's teeth were shattering. "Mycroft, I'm cold."

Which was unsurprising, given that the water temperature was not that far above freezing.

"Hold on. Don't let go."

"We should scream," Sherlock suggested.

Mycroft knew that there was a very slim chance of anyone hearing them, but he decided to humor his brother and called out for help. Sherlock's trembling voice fell in, a high, pitiful wail. Their voices echoed eerily off the walls of the well.

They called until they had no breath left, and Mycroft could feel Sherlock's grip weakening.

"Don't let go!" He warned.

"I'm cooold." Teeth shattering even louder.

"I know. Just a little longer, Sherlock. You're strong." His arms and legs were beginning to feel numb.

"But Mycroft..."

"You can do it. Not long now."

Sherlock fell silent, but he didn't let go.

Later, Mycroft could not have said how long they stayed in the cold, dark water, and he never learnt the exact time. It felt like an eternity. It was only when both his body and his mind threatened to slip away into the cold, beckoning darkness that voices and running feet sounded far above them.

"Mycroft!" His father called, his voice an octave too high, terribly frightened. "Sherlock!"

"Yes," Mycroft's voice was weak with cold and exhaustion.

Something came dropping towards them.

"Mycroft," his father called down into the well. "There is a rope with something like a life jacket at the end. Put it on, like a vest. Be sure to fasten the buckles. Can you do that?"

Mycroft doubted it, given his current condition, but that wasn't the most important point now.

"Sherlock first."

"Mycroft, no, we will get both of you at once. Can you hold your brother?"

"I don't know."

"You have to." Mycroft nodded weakly.

The life jacket - or whatever it was, no doubt one of Father's inventions - was surprisingly heavy. Mycroft struggled with it for a good while, especially since he had to get his half-frozen brother off his back in order to put it on. Finally, with the buckles fastened and Sherlock wrapped in his arms, held as tightly as he could manage, Mycroft told their father to pull them up.

It took both the gardener and his apprentice, strong, stout men, to pull them out of the well, with their father hovering by anxiously.

Mycroft felt firm ground under his tired body, took a look at his brother, lying next to him and coughing softly, and closed his eyes.

 

* * *

 

 

That night, Mycroft formulated his first - no, strike that, _his one and only_ law. It was a rather lengthy discourse, twisting and looping and branching off, but in the end, it all came down to one very simple truth: _Sherlock must be kept safe._ As laws went, it was a rather tricky one. It looked unassumingly straightforward at first glance, but in fact, it was extremely difficult to uphold. For the next seventy-four years of his life - because Sherlock, despite all odds, did manage to outlive him by two years - it kept Mycroft on the very edge of an abyss, a bottomless black pit he knew would swallow him instantly if he stumbled. The abyss looked an awful lot like the deep, dark well when he pictured it in his mind.

Mycroft tossed and turned in his bed, coughing. His front felt hot, and he knew that he was running a fever - unsurprisingly, really. Father had tucked him in himself, hovering by his bedside for longer than usual, with a cup of hot milk that Mycroft hadn't touched. He had pretended to fall asleep in the end, because it was easier than watching Father become more and more miserable as he berated himself for not watching his children.

_Has he called Mummy?_ Mycroft wondered. His parents had a set of unwritten rules, and one of them was that Father never called Mummy when she was on a mission. Not unless the world was about to end or somebody died.

"Mycroft?" Somebody small stood in front of his bed, shifting hesitantly from one leg to the other. Mycroft stared at the slight figure, puzzled.

"You should be asleep in your bed."

"I can't sleep," Sherlock said, as if that explained everything. It was a familiar argument.

"You mean you won't sleep," Mycroft corrected. "Because I'm sure you could. If you weren't wandering about, that is."

"I'm cold."

Mycroft paused. "Still?" he asked softly, remembering the icy cold water, the deadly darkness surrounding them.

"Yes."

"Come here." He lifted the edge of his covers. Sherlock climbed onto the bed and crawled in, instantly huddling close to him. Mycroft covered him with a generous portion of blanket and wrapped an arm around the small, shivering body. "Better?"

Sherlock buried his face against his side. "Mhm. You're warm."

_Feverish_ , Mycroft corrected in his mind. "That's good, then, isn't it?"

"Mhm." Sherlock was clearly getting sleepier by the minute. "Mycroft?"

"Yes?"

"Why did you jump in?"

"Because you were there," Mycroft replied honestly.

"Stupid," Sherlock said.

"I would do it again," Mycroft replied.

 

* * *

 

 

Sherlock had been an accident, pure and simple. Born seven years after Mycroft, he had been neither planned, nor anticipated, and in fact, he put his parents in a rather awkward situation. Ophelia Holmes, then forty-four years old, had neither wanted another child, nor assumed that she would be able to become pregnant again, and when it turned out that she was, she was on a mission in Eastern Germany and anything but happy about the news.

She returned home, two and a half months pregnant, and had her mind set on trying to convince her tender-hearted husband that keeping this unwanted, unexpected baby was simply not worth the trouble. Alain was understandably and expectedly upset.

However, at literally the last moment, when everything had already discreetly been arranged with a doctor Ophelia trusted and knew she could rely on, she was briefed for an undercover mission that would require an experienced agent who was above suspicion.

Nobody in their right mind suspects a pretty pregnant woman of anything sinister.

That mission saved Sherlock's life, and the fact that he provided such perfect cover for his mother quite probably saved Britain's interests in Eastern Europe, so it was a satisfactory deal for everyone involved. Including Mycroft, who to his great bemusement was told that he would receive an out of season gift in January (as it happened, on January 6, also celebrated as Epiphany - the symbolism was not lost on Mycroft).

"You will have a little brother," his father told him, smiling.

Mycroft pondered this bit of news. "But it's not my birthday," he stated. "And Christmas is over already. Why would I get a brother now?"

"Maybe you are just lucky," his father suggested.

Mycroft certainly did feel lucky, even though the baby was a bit of a disappointment at first. While it had the right number of toes and fingers - Mycroft made sure to check - and a hearty set of lungs, it was a squalid red thing and not particularly interesting in the beginning. As the months passed, though, it became more and more aware of its surroundings, watching them from curious blue eyes that slowly turned grey. It grabbed at everything within reach. Occasionally, it smiled at Mummy (she was not around all that often). More often at Father.

It always smiled at Mycroft.

"You're mine," Mycroft said, watching the baby examine one of his fingers, which it had caught with a chubby hand.

He could just as well have said _I'm yours_ , because it would have been equally true.

Years later, a young man would ask Mycroft what he had done with his heart, if he had ever had one. It was meant to imply that Mycroft was a cold hearted bastard who did not care about people and was unable to love.

Mycroft kept the answer to himself, but it was clear in his mind.

He had given his heart to his brother for safekeeping, and never gotten it back.

 

* * *

 

 

Sherlock was a beautiful child. He had inherited their mother's fair complexion and strangely changeable eyes, grey in the right light, or blue, or sometimes even greenish. While she was a natural redhead, though, he had their father's mop of soft dark curls. He possessed the same long-limbed grace as Mycroft, yet another gift of their mother's.

His nanny called him a little porcelain doll, because he could sit perfectly still for minutes, observing an insect or watching something tiny through the looking glass. Sherlock resented the nickname and his pretty face scrunched into a frown.

It came as no great surprise that Sherlock should be remarkably intelligent, he had shown signs of it at an early age. Most people assumed that it was a given fact, considering that both his parents were brilliant in their fields, but Sherlock had little talent for dissemblance and no particular interest in mathematics. He had, to Mycroft's great envy, inherited their father's extraordinary musical talent, but to him, music was a focus, a means to an end, not a passion. Sherlock's intelligence was focused on observations, on spotting the patterns that permeated and governed the world surrounding him. His ability to read situations and people was both uncanny and unsettling. It delighted Mycroft, secretly made their mother proud, and made everyone else feel uneasy around him.

He learned easily, but quickly lost interest in a subject once he had gathered what he deemed to be helpful. He moved through the curriculum he was presented with too quickly, getting bored and annoyed if bothered with pesky details or repetitions. His tutors regarded him as difficult and arrogant, and Mycroft secretly dreaded the day his brother would have to face the trials of an ordinary school.

"He needs other children," Father argued when Sherlock was five.

"He hates other children," Mycroft told him. "And they are scared of him." They had tested Sherlock's reaction to children his age on a few distant cousins and every available neighbor. The experiment had been successful only in showing that Sherlock did not play well with others. Others that weren't Mycroft, that is.

And Mycroft, even though he was loath to admit it, was secretly glad about that. Sherlock was to remain his, and his alone.

"He is not your puppy dog, or your toy, Mycroft," Father said sternly, after watching them in long suffering silence.

"I know," Mycroft huffed with a disdainful frown. "Of course not. He is my other half."

"You are complete as you are," Father said. Ever the mathematician, the philosopher. "The human soul is indivisible."

"Well, God or whoever else is in charge must have made a mistake with me," Mycroft said, shrugging. "They put half of my soul into Sherlock. Maybe there weren't enough souls left. I suppose the supply is not unlimited."

"It's an interesting concept, but I am sure it doesn't work that way." Father smiled.

They watched Sherlock in the music room across the hall, coaxing the first sweet notes out of the violin under the watchful gaze of his teacher.

"I'm glad he's out of the wailing cat phase," Mycroft remarked. "That was painful."

"It is always difficult in the beginning, and you have sensitive ears," his father said. "You wait. It'll be worth it. If he doesn't get bored with the instrument, he'll go far."

"I don't think he'll follow in your footsteps,," Mycroft said.

"Probably not. Not in your mother's either, I hope. You both need to find your own way in life. Prime Minister, Mycroft?" He smiled again. His father had a wonderful, warm smile. It was one of the best things about him.

"No, boring. Not where the real power is. An elective position could never hold true power, could it? Not in a democracy."

"So where is the real power then?" Father asked. Testing him.

Mycroft smiled faintly. "In the shades. Behind the throne. Out of the public eye. Power is control, and control is only possible with sufficient information. Hence, power is where the information is."

"An archivist, then."

"Of sorts. Things in archives are usually passé. I'll be an archivist of current events. I like what Mummy's boss does. Just not the way he does it, that's not very intelligent."

"For the sake of my marriage, I will pretend to have no idea what you are speaking of." Father's lips twitched in a barely suppressed grin.

Mycroft snorted. "You are a code-breaker. Probably one of the best in this country. Don't try to tell me you aren't reading their internal communications every once in a while?"

"Guilty as charged. But let's keep your mother out of this."

Mycroft rolled his eyes. "Father, please. She married you. Of course she knows."

In the music room, Sherlock carefully stowed away the violin and handed the case to his teacher, who complimented him on his achievements and told him to practice. Sherlock turned around, looking past the tall woman, and grinned at Mycroft.

"Caught you watching."

"Of course you did," Mycroft said.

Sherlock came running towards them. Father bent down to greet him, but Sherlock went straight to his brother. Mycroft scooped him up and put him on his hip, even though he was getting to big for it. "So?" He asked.. "What now? We are discussing career choices. Would you like to be a musician?"

Sherlock shook his head, dark curls flying. "No, boring."

"A doctor?"

"Boring."

"A spy?"

"Mummy is a spy," Sherlock said, looking thoughtful.

"I suppose so," Mycroft said. "So...?"

His brother frowned. "She is always away."

"Often," Mycroft amended.

Sherlock shook his head. "I don't want to be a spy. I want to be here. Will you come and look at the beehive I found in the attic?"

Mycroft smiled. "Sure."

 

* * *

 

 

When their mother returned home from whatever had kept her in London and possibly beyond for two months, she had the beehive removed. After all, Father was allergic to bees and his reaction to being stung was so powerful he might have died from it. It would have too much of a risk, she argued.

Mycroft couldn't find fault in her argumentation, but he was also unable to ignore the fact that the destruction of the beehive sent Sherlock into a temper tantrum that had him sulking in his room for two days without eating.

"Dear me," Mother sighed. "What is wrong with that child? You were never as unmanageable at his age."

"I'm not Sherlock," Mycroft pointed out. "And he was quite fond of those bees."

"Please," his mother shook her head.

"Maybe we ought to get him a pet," Father suggested. "A dog? He might like to have a dog."

"I don't like animals in the house," Mother objected. "All the hair and the dirt..."

In the end, they settled on a pony. It was a friendly, stoic creature, black as night with thick, soft fur. Sherlock tried to hide how pleased he was with the gift, but Mycroft knew better. Riding lessons were added to Sherlock's weekly schedule and he learned to care for the pony. He took his time to find a name for it. Mycroft suggested _Sleipnir, Bucephalus,_ and _Marengo_ , and Father put in a vote for _Incitatus_. Mother, rather unimaginatively suggested _Blacky._

Sherlock ended up naming the pony _Troy._ Mycroft appreciated the irony. The pony Troy didn't seem to care much, as long as Sherlock was willing to pet it and bring carrots and bread crusts.

Mycroft requested his own horse (a pony wouldn't do for him) for his thirteenth birthday and grey, light footed _Goblin_ joined Troy in the stables. Since their parents trusted Mycroft to be sensible and careful, they were allowed to roam through the countryside on horseback.

When Mycroft thought tried to remember a time in his life when he had felt truly free, he always thought back to those days.

A year passed, and another spring. Sherlock was six years old and their parents decided that it was time for him to be enrolled in school. Predictably, he hated it.

Private tutors and his own inquisitive mind had seen to it that he was years ahead of the other children in his class. Trying to cater to his needs, and surprised to find a wunderkind on their hands, the school bumped him up two years, but that only created new problems. The older students were suspicious of this boy, who was significantly younger, but outshone them all. They teased him mercilessly.

Sherlock bore it with quiet disdain.

_Mycroft_ on the other hand, was enraged when he learned of it (by accident, of course, his brother would never have breathed a word of it, he was too proud for that). He took the elder siblings of several of the worst offenders aside. Some he threatened, some he bribed, and one teenage sister actually wanted to go on a date with him, which turned into a short-lived, but rather sweet romance. (Mycroft was nothing, if not opportunistic.)

It did not go over well with Sherlock.

"I don't need you to fight my battles for me!"

Mycroft shrugged. He didn't see the problem. "They were bothering you. I took care of it." It was his duty as Sherlock's brother, wasn't it?

"I'm not a coward, Mycroft."

"Of course you aren't," Mycroft said with conviction.

"Well, then leave your nose out of my business," Sherlock fumed.

He also didn't like Erica, Mycroft's girlfriend.

"She's stupid!"

"She isn't particularly bright," Mycroft agreed complacently, "but she's nice, and I like her smile."

Sherlock frowned. "That's not enough."

He was right, of course. It wasn't. But Mycroft had to discover that for himself; it was all part of growing up.

 

* * *

 

 

Their lives continued comparatively quiet and peaceful until Mycroft was fifteen and Sherlock eight years old.

The protective bubble that had enveloped them shattered on a crisp, clear winter morning, the morning of Boxing Day, to be precise; when their father fell off a ladder while trying to reach for a book on the top shelf of the library. The doctor's verdict was heart attack.

He was 53 years old.

"Why do people die?" Sherlock asked, and Mycroft, who normally could answer any question, just didn't have a valid answer to that.

Their mother was devastated and dealt with her grief in the only way she knew, by throwing herself into her work even more than before. She hadn't been particularly close to her sons before, and now she withdrew even more.

For Sherlock and Mycroft, that meant boarding school, which in Mycroft's case was secretly welcome, because it meant that he could skip a year ahead and graduate early. College, with all its enticing prospects of knowledge, and glory, and possibilities, awaited.

Sherlock raged against the decision. He didn't want to leave home, didn't want Mycroft to leave, and felt betrayed by all three adults in his life. Mycroft couldn't really blame him, and he felt guilty for leaving his brother to face this crisis alone, but he had no better solution to the problem. And Sherlock would get the excellent education he deserved, he reasoned.

He was surprised, but pleased (if a little suspicious at first) when he learned that Sherlock had apparently found a friend in his roommate, Victor Trevor. He found a way to meet the boy, of course, and was quietly relieved when Victor turned out to be a decent fellow, a bit quiet, perhaps, and certainly no match for Sherlock's quicksilver mind, but loyal and dependable. He was obviously in awe of Sherlock, trailing him like a shadow, wide-eyed at his brilliance and following even the most stupidly reckless of his schemes, and Sherlock seemed to enjoy it. Mycroft couldn't begrudge him the small comfort of Victor's friendship, even if he was perhaps a little jealous.

(Maybe more than a little, if he was perfectly honest with himself.)

What he should have realized then, and not many years later, and only after watching Sherlock with John Watson; was that his brother approached relationships in the same way he approached his most difficult puzzles. (And rightly so, perhaps, because there was nothing more complicated in life.) He threw everything he had at them, all his shining brilliance, all his fire and passion, burning everything in his wake.

He was that way with Victor, with John Watson, with Jim Moriarty. Ultimately, also with Mycroft himself.

And as one recipient of Sherlock's mad intensity, and the one who knew him best, Mycroft should have seen it. But then, human emotions were the only code he had ever had difficulty deciphering.

Nobody's perfect, after all.

Things went to hell in a handbasket, as the saying goes, when Victor Trevor drowned. On a school field trip, no less.

Sherlock was devastated.

Mycroft was at a loss for words.

Sentiment. How to handle sentiment...?

He told Sherlock that he was sorry for his loss, but that didn't cover it, not in the least. He took Sherlock away, thinking that a change of air and atmosphere might help, and they travelled for a few weeks. France, to see their grandparents. Italy, because Mycroft wanted to show Sherlock Rome.

Sherlock remained quiet and withdrawn.

School recommenced, and Mycroft returned to England with a heavy heart, distracted from his studies by worries about Sherlock.

Deep down, he wasn't particularly surprised when he got the call.

"Mycroft," his mother said, a slight tremble in her usually steady voice, "you have to come home. Sherlock's at the hospital. He... they say he tried to kill himself."

("Did you?" Mycroft asked Sherlock.

Sherlock shrugged. "It was an experiment.")

Apparently, the chemistry lab hadn't been locked properly after class. Mycroft got the chemistry teacher fired, small satisfaction though it was.

That incident stood at the beginning of Sherlock's long, convoluted, and dangerous relationship with drugs - and it was the beginning of Mycroft's chronic insomnia.

He never told anyone, and obviously not his brother; but the day Sherlock walked away from a crime scene with John Watson, giggling madly, marked the first time _in_ _years_ that Mycroft got a good night's sleep.

He worried.

Constantly.

There was only one law, after all, and the law was simple, but oh so terribly difficult to uphold: _Sherlock must be kept safe._


End file.
